Ever since you were here I have been in what Geraldine would call “an agony” of to or not-to go— Tomorrow is finally given
up as untenable and I have undertaken for Saturday. There are still two evenings between this and then, and you know how glad I always am to see you— Still do not come—it is a long way—and you have so much to occupy you—and tho believing that your heart is good to me—I would not tax its
kindness.

No more chapters to me1—I am curious to know how you liked the last? Sir Harry and Lady Verney2 were here today and asked me confidentially “now Mrs C will you tell us what we are to believe about these Cromwell letters?” I told them they would just have “to believe that they believed” I supposed

I hear Landor was telling somewhere—at the Procters, my informant said, that he forged the letters for a joke against Carlyle3— If he said so in joke it was a bad joke under the circumstances

I am still dreadfully weak, but having had no “hysteric seizures,”4 I can no longer defy the Manager,5 and produce an émeute [disturbance].